


The Wrong Robert

by IambicKentameter



Category: Inception
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-02
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25660372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IambicKentameter/pseuds/IambicKentameter
Summary: A Dear John letter is understood to be a breakup letter that young women would send their boyfriends while they were away on leave. A bit cruel to do it in a letter, but Arthur hadn't heard from his soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, Robert Fischer, since he'd left for Afghanistan two years ago.Unfortunately, there are two Roberts in Fischer's squad, and Arthur's handwriting isn't as nice as it could be.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81
Collections: Inception Big Bang 2020





	The Wrong Robert

The Wrong Robert

“That looks exciting.” Ariadne said before dropping her bag on Arthur’s countertop, where he was scribbling something down. “Are you starting a novel?”

“Not in the slightest.” Arthur barely looked up from his work. “Have you heard of a ‘Dear John letter’?”

Ariadne scoffed. “I _hate_ that movie. Romantic comedies are _boring_.” 

Arthur shook his head. “No, not that. Although, they’re probably related… I don’t know, Ari.”

“What do you know?” She rested her elbows on his countertop and peered down at what he had. “Just about the Dear John thing, I don’t particularly care about _everything_ that _you_ could possibly know.”

“In World War II, when the-”

“Nope.” Ariadne interrupted. “I will have the short version, please.”

“Basically, because letters to their sweethearts started with ‘Dearest Johnny’, or ‘Darling’ or whatever, when they started with a curt ‘Dear’, the guy knew he was going to get dumped.”

Ariadne frowned. “You’re dumping Robert? Handsome, sweet, _Marine,_ Robert?” She watched Arthur jot the last few insults down on his third sheet of paper. “He’s been in Afghanistan for two years.”

“And for one year and eight months, he’s completely ignored me except for an emails that were obviously sent to everyone in his contact list.” Arthur licked his envelope to seal it.

“Wow. Prick.” She hummed and handed him a stamp. “Send it.”

Arthur smoothed down the stamp and swept up the stuffed envelope. “Now… to walk down to the post box.”

Ariadne rolled her eyes and slipped her shoes on. “The stamp thing was so satisfying though… Sure you can’t just leave it at that?”

“No, Ari. I’m sending this letter. He’s gonna have to hear it eventually, and I’d rather him not come back to his apartment to find me settled down with someone better.”

“You plan on moving someone else into the apartment before his tour is up? He’s only got six months left.”

“I don’t know.” By this point in their conversation, they’d reached the nearest mailbox on Arthur’s street. “All I know is that I don’t want him back here when he does get back. Or ever.” He tossed the envelope down the throat of the mailbox, and instantly relief trickled down his neck and into his nervous system. An irreversible move Arthur would never wish back.

“Does this feel like one of those… moments that change everything?”

“Not particularly.” He shrugged and started back to the front entrance of his building.

Now, if this were a movie, or some sort of visual art in the sense that one could physically _see_ what was going on, perhaps a less sophisticated filmmaker would provide some sort of graphic where the letter Arthur sent flew up into the air and then off into the left somewhere, through the clouds, until it found itself amongst several other letters something like 3 weeks later. However, any ninny with a basic understanding of the postage system would know how profoundly idiotic that would be. And campy.

The private in charge of delivering the mail was something of a lazy twat, in Lieutenant Robert Eames’ opinion. 

Eames made a face at the handwriting on the envelope he’d just been handed. “Oi!” He called after the Private that had handed it to him. “Who do you think I am?” This was a phrase that Eames was used to saying in the most derisive way possible, and it felt strange coming out as a genuine question.

“Robert?” The guy arched a brow, confused. “Robert Fischer?”

“Eames.” He pointed to the name badge velcroed to his chest. “I’m Robert Eames.”

The private shrugged, little to no fucks given for what he clearly now thought of as Eames’ problem. “Then you’re the perfect guy to find him.”

Eames rolled his eyes as the man walked away, then looked down at the letter, re-evaluating the handwriting.

So. Robert got a letter.

Another one.

Eames glanced around briefly, checking he wasn’t being watched, before tearing open the envelope.

He didn’t mean to start reading the letters, but something inside him had grown addicted to Arthur’s words.

At first, his delicate hand doted on his true Robert’s intellect, detailing his every passionate thought of the other, of his daily life, of how much Robert was missed. 

Sargent Fischer had cast the letters aside when they first began to arrive, claiming Arthur was a prudy, clingy mess who was probably just after his GI Bill.

Eames, who had dug these letters out of the trash, had pretty much figured out that Arthur was being nothing but genuine.

Every letter after that first one had been intercepted by Eames one way or another, this last one by apparent accident.

He devoured this latest letter like a starving man would a hot meal, and discovered, with great displeasure, that it would be the last.

_Robert,_ The letter began, not _Rob,_ or _Robbie_ or even _sweetheart_ like some letters in the past had done. Just simply and coldly, _Robert._

_I consider myself a man of few words,_ it continued in Arthur’s neat, crisp handwriting. _And perhaps that trait is what has allowed me to put up with this pathetic excuse of a relationship for the last year and a half. Your deployment is almost over, and I expected you back at least every 6 months for shore leave, yet I haven’t heard more than a word from you in as many years._

_I packed your things and took them to your Uncle’s house. Ari suggested I burn them, but I’m not that guy. I’m well aware you’re due back a few short months after I’m sending this, but I’m sure you’ll devise an alternate living plan, if you haven’t already. Now that I think about it, if you have thought that you’ll be returning to the left side of the bed, you’ve got another thing coming._

Eames couldn’t contain his joyful giggle. Holy shit, Arthur was finally leaving his piece of shit boyfriend!

He had to write him back, immediately, so that he knew… what? That Eames was single? That he had been reading all his letters since the start? Fuck no. that was stupid.

But he couldn’t just say _nothing_ , could he?

~*~

Arthur spent the two weeks after sending the letter re-decorating his condo. Yes. Arthur was a 28 year old man who owned a condo. He was good at money management. Robert said that made him boring, but screw him. He didn’t own a condo.

One fresh coat of paint later and halfway through swapping all the cabinet handles, one of the kitchen lights died.

“You gonna get that?” Ariadne called over her shoulder, not taking her eyes off the T.V.

“You could help, you know.” Arthur snapped. “Do something other than drink my beer.”

“I told you, I’m not participating in your quarter life crisis.”

“How is this a crisis? This is not a crisis. Breaking up with Robert has been freeing.” He reached up to unscrew the bulb, but upon turning it the wrong way, it burst.

“Damnit.” Arthur swore as the light bulb exploded on him. “Fuck!”

“I told you this would happen.” Ariadne tsked. “You’d break it off with Robert and then everything would start breaking and you don’t know how to fix it.”

“They invented the internet for a reason.” He growled, whipping out his phone. 

“Do you want me to go out, get a new lightbulb?” Ari asked, finally getting off the couch and making her way to the kitchen.

“No, no, you’ve had one too many beers. I’ll go.”

“I’m fine to drive, Arthur-”

“I’m not saying you can’t come.” He said with an eye roll.

The left, shopped, and returned all within an hour. On habit, Arthur checked the mail to find a smattering of junk mail as usual, accompanied by a single legitimate letter, his name and address hand printed sloppily on the front.

Ari peered over his shoulder. “Robert?”

“No, it’s not his handwriting…” Arthur murmured, tearing open the back of the envelope right there in the lobby of his complex.

_Arthur,_ the letter started, a foreign chicken scratch covering the page front to back. _I’m sorry, but somehow your letter has ended up in the hands of the wrong Robert. I’m Robert Eames, but I prefer Eames. I know Fischer, he’s in my unit, and he’s away on mission for the next week._

_Please don’t turn me in for opening your mail, but you know how the saying goes: Curiosity Killed the Cat. It was a bastard move, though._

Arthur squinted at the letter skeptically as this Eames went off on a tangent that he couldn’t quite follow. At some point Ariadne had begun dragging him to the elevator and subsequently, his apartment. 

“Keys?” She asked at the door.

“Huh?”

“Keys.” She said again, thrusting an open and waiting palm towards him. 

He passed them over eagerly, then immediately turning back to the letter.

_…He gave me crabs, you know. But that’s beside the point. The point is that sometimes, even people with crabs can be a great shag. No, shit, sorry, something about being faithful? Not really sure where I was going there. Anyway. I consider myself a faithful guy, you know. When I love someone, they are my everything, I’m consumed by the thought of him._

_I don’t mean this to come off the wrong way, but I’ve known Rob a long time, and he isn’t exactly gushing about you non stop. Then again, I hate listening to him, he’s a prick._

That got a laugh out of Arthur, Not a full bodied laugh, mind you, but a simple exhalation from his nose, and dammit, that counts. 

_You’ve listened to me enough. I guess the short version is, I’m sorry your boyfriend is a dick, I’m glad you’ve stood up for yourself and rid yourself of him, and I’m sorry for reading your mail. Though, for reasons I’d rather not dig into, I rather enjoyed writing back to you. I hope my letter finds you well, and… if you find yourself in need of something to do, maybe I could hear from you again, this time intentionally._

  1. _Eames._



When Arthur finally broke his concentration on the letter, he found Ariadne staring at him, unblinkingly. “What.”

“I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“Oh, this?” He held up the letter. “Uh, apparently Robert didn’t get my letter. Somebody else did, and he, uh, wrote back.”

She smirked. “And will you?”

“What? Write back?” He shrugged, setting the letter on the edge of the counter. “I’m not sure, Ari.”

~*~

Eames ran his fingers over the letter cautiously. Arthur had actually written him back.

This could go one of two ways. The first, that he so enthusiastically accepted Eames’ clear advancements that he would fly to Afghanistan as soon as possible to consummate their love. Or, the second, where he denied him so aggressively that the restraining order would be included within the letter itself. 

Arthur’s opening lines told him all he needed to know. Secret answer number three.

_Dear Mr. Eames,_

_When you first wrote me, I thought you were some sort of parasite, living off of whatever attention someone gave you. However, I served my time, so I know how lonely it can get in the service, particularly for outside contact. That is the reason, after all, that Robert and I got together in the first place. Convenience, I suppose, outweighs love._

The letter went on to detail the work Arthur had been doing on his condo, his efforts to somehow remove all of Robert’s things along with everything he had ever touched from what was now solely Arthur’s place.

His best friend and local lesbian, Ariadne, was being genuinely unhelpful in the whole process. Though she was an architect, it was her opinion that this process wouldn’t be nearly as cathartic to Arthur should she do anything other than sit on the couch and drink beer.

It was odd, but Arthur’s syntax seemed a lot more relaxed than it had been with Robert, and his penmanship was considerably less… well, it wasn’t so much imprinted on the page like last time, as it was delicately written.

The letter was comparatively short, but was infinitely more delightful to read. It even begged a response.

Oh fuck. Eames was going to need a pen.

~*~

Ari dropped a thick envelope on Arthur’s kitchen counter. When Arthur didn’t look up from installing the new sink, she picked it up, cleared her throat, and slammed it down on the counter once more.

“Jesus, hi, yes, what do you want?”

“Okay, geeze princess.” She snorted. “Just thought you’d want to know your new Robert wrote you back.”

Arthur fumbled the wrench in his hand, but responded casually enough. “He prefers Eames.”

“Whatever.” Ari rolled her eyes and made a beeline for the beer.

“Did you come over to hang out with me this time?”

“I was considering it, but after the last letter you got, I know you’re just going to ignore me again.” She motioned for him to relinquish the beer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, the DIY network awaits.”

He rolled his eyes and set to opening the thick padded envelope. It included not only a letter, a much longer one this time, but three small bags of spices as well, wrapped in a fine, hand woven handkerchief. 

_Dear Arthur,_ The letter began in Eames’ unruly scrawl. 

_I have no idea if you like cooking at all, but you seem like the type to enjoy the finer things in life. I picked up the spice blends and kerchief at a market when we passed through for our last mission. I’m sorry it was presumptuous, but after being in a relationship with Fischer for the last, what, two years you said? After all that, you deserve something nice._

_I am eager to hear about your advancements on the condo. I myself bought a place before I was shipped out, a real fixer upper, but it needs far more than a fresh coat of paint. I get the impression that the last owners hadn’t remodelled since the 70’s, the shag carpet being… well, there. If you have any tips, I’d love to hear them._

Eames’ letter went on, telling Arthur about his week, about a mission he was about to be sent out on, even a brief tangent about his mother calling him and nagging him about why _she_ wasn’t getting any letters from him. 

Arthur absentmindedly wafted the spices under his nose while he read. He was already starting to come up with ways he could incorporate it into the stir fry he’d planned for himself tonight, though he’d probably have to double the recipe just in case Ari stopped by uninvited. 

She did.

“So… another letter, huh?” She said with a mirthful grin. “You guys are really hitting it off, huh?” Each ‘huh’ was accompanied by a suggestive eyebrow raise and an uptick of her voice. 

“Stop.” 

“Stop what?”

Arthur set down the letter and held the spice blend out to her. “Smell this.”

She did. “What is it?”

“Something Eames sent over from Afghanistan. I was thinking of a recipe to use with it, maybe a stir fry?”

“This guy is sending you gifts?” Ari balked. “He barely knows you! He doesn’t even know what you look like!”

“Maybe I should send him a picture then.” Arthur said without even thinking about it twice.

Ariadne gaped at him. “Maybe this guy is good for you. Look at you! Changing what’s for dinner at the last minute, sending a guy a face pic before you have his credit history, so cavalier!” She darted around the condo, searching for something, then snatched a picture frame from behind the tv. “There we go, send him this one!” She plucked it from its frame and brandished it before Arthur’s eyes, just a little too close for him to tell quite what it was. 

He leaned back to take a proper look. “No!” 

Sure, the photo had its merits. It was taken on one of Arthur’s good hair days, for one, but Robert’s arm was wrapped around his shoulders, his sunglasses sliding down his nose to reveal those striking blue eyes. 

“Tear it in half then, if you’re going to be a baby about it.” Ari said, taking it back.

“No!” He snatched it away. “Use scissors. It’s neater.”

She rolled her eyes, but snipped it in half with an offered pair of kitchen sheers. She dropped it in a fresh envelope and slid it across the counter to him. “Can’t turn back now.”

~*~

Eames tore open the latest letter, only half surprised when a photo fell out. Well, half a photo. The man in the photo was… devastating. Holy shit, those dimples. The silky hair, parting over his browline like a book. The disembodied arm around the man’s shoulder, now that he recognised. Rather, the tattoo it sported. 

So this was Arthur. ...wow.

Eames skimmed over the letter, more about the remodel, something about a house hunting show on the DIY channel that was apparently not very DIY. (“ _They just order around a construction crew! Nothing about that is doing it yourself! Give me a show about the crew, damnit! Now Maine Cabin Masters, that’s a show.”)_

Eames chewed his bottom lip, trying to keep himself from smiling so wide that his face split.

He riffled through his sparse belongings, but no pictures of himself were hiding in either of his duffels. Damn. There was one in particular where he didn’t look half bad and hardly like a chav, but it was- if memory served- framed and sitting next to his bed. 

But that gave him an idea. He fished his house keys out of his bag and dropped them in the nearest envelope, then immediately started scrawling out a brief letter to accompany them. 

Shit. He was going to need more stamps.

~*~

Arthur finished carrying the last box up the steps to Eames’ fourth floor walk-up less than an hour after he’d arrived. It wasn’t that bad, not nearly as messy as Eames had described it, but the decor was certainly outdated by about fifty years. Hence the, uh, supplies Arthur had picked up at the hardware store. 

The first two were supplies from his house, just general cleaning things. The second was a “spare” box of tile Arthur just “happened” to have (He picked it up from the hardware store a week ago for this very purpose). The fourth was the grout.

_I don’t have any photos with me, particularly of myself, but there should be a family picture or two hanging at my place. The GI Bill has been paying it off, but no one’s been in there for a few months. Plus, I’m sure your apartment has been re-done to death, so if you really need a new project, my place is more than ready for some love. I’m not sure if you’re ready for a place like mine, my bathroom has carpet, Arthur. Carpet._

Arthur had to heave his shoulder into Eames’ door to open it, the dank smell of a sedentary ancient home flooding out of the open space. 

_I think your biggest problem is that he left you out to dry, He couldn’t make it a clean break, probably because he wanted to hang on to you._

_I’m not sure how Fisher thinks. I barely know the guy. But I know you, and I trust you enough to take my key. I need somebody back home to root through my stuff and make sure nothing’s rancid. Could you do that?_

Well, Eames hadn’t been lying about the shag carpet. He first sought out every window he could find, throwing them open as wide as he could. 

_Also- this cat started coming by a few months before I got shipped out. It would sort of hang out by the balcony door and scratch until I let him in and gave him food. At least, I think it was a he…_

_Anyway, if you could leave out an open can of tuna or something for that cat, just to see if it’s still there, I’d really appreciate it._

There was, in fact, an unspoiled can of a tuna-like substance in one of the sparse kitchen cabinets. He left it outside on the balcony, even though there wasn’t any sich alley cat in sight.

His phone started buzzing on the counter, Ariadne’s grinning face taking up most of the screen. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Why do you always answer the phone like that?”

“No one has called me, actually physically called me, since my mother passed. Most people text unless it’s an emergency.”

“I was bored. Where are you? When are you getting back?”

“I don’t know, Ari, I just got here. I’ve got a lot of work to do, so I might just hang out here, maybe sleep on the couch?”

“You. Arthur Soloman. _My_ Arthur Soloman. You are going to sleep on the couch.”

“Maybe, I dunno, I’m mostly focused on re-tiling the bathroom right now, I haven’t thought about it.”

Ari was silent on the other end; he could practically hear her jaw hit the floor. “You’re really into this guy, huh?”

“He doesn’t mean anything to me, he just keeps mailing me back.”

“Yeah, right.” Ariadne snorted. “He stole your heart and fucking _ran_ with it. You’ve got his house key!”

“Just to spruce the place up a bit. He hasn’t been there in two years, plus I can take some of my re-decorating energy out on his place.”

“I’m sure you’re going to take a hell of a lot of energy out on him.”

Arthur hung up on her. It wasn’t as satisfying as he’d planned. Looks like the tile would have to wait, he had to sort out some of the more bizarre emotions he was having. He usually journalled, but seeing as that was tucked away at his condo, he’d have to settle. 

Eames didn’t seem to have any sort of office supplies in his apartment, save for an old printer with some yellowing paper inside. Arthur had to write with his marking pencil, you know, the big flat ones you get at home stores. But when he sat down to jot down his thoughts in an organized format, even debating making a pro/con list as he was want to do, the only thing that seemed to flow out of him was another letter to Eames.

_Robert wasn’t a caveman, but it wasn’t exactly a fulfilling relationship. I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but I don’t think I’m ready. How do I know I’m not going to spend another unfulfilling two years with yet another soldier named Robert?_

_I shouldn’t be saying that. That’s not fair to you, you and Robert are polar opposites. Robert is- was pragmatic. We got along, had all the same interests, it was, above all else, comfortable. But I don’t know, Eames, how compatible we even are. I’ve never even heard your voice! You’re perfectly charming on paper, if a bit distracted at times, but what if that doesn’t translate to real life? What if we finally meet and we have no chemistry? I’m usually so sure of everything I do, because I plan ahead, weigh all my options._

_~*~_

_I need you to actually find Robert this time. He needs to hear this too._

_Tell him that we’ve hit a wall, in our relationship. That… I’m not… I don’t know. Help me write this. I just need to cut this off before he drains anything else out of me._

It was signed without a sign-off, not even a ‘warm regards’. Just… Arthur.

Eames couldn’t decide if this were good news or bad. On the one hand, Arthur was actively seeking to break up with Fischer, with the vague but promising idea that he might start seeing Eames. On the other hand, he was doing it through Eames. On the third hand, Arthur also seemed hesitant about going through with it with Eames, and one shouldn't start a relationship with hesitation, at least not after getting out of whatever he had going on with Fischer. 

Oh, fuck it. Arthur was a big boy, if he didn't want Eames to dive head first into this like he did with everything else, he would speak up. He might not know much about him, but Arthur was strong willed and outspoken, that he knew.

~*~

_I told him what you wrote. Just a condensed version, less rambling. And you said I was bad. I… any way, I’d really like it if you could give me a call, maybe? If you want to see if we have chemistry, now is your chance._

A number was enclosed. Arthur swallowed thickly. That was it, that was the end of the letter. Three short sentences, a phone number, and Eames’ messy, overly large signature. 

This… whatever this was, wasn’t safe anymore. It had been, when Robert was still in the picture. When Eames was just a faceless source of comfort to vent his frustrations at, not… an independent human being with… interests. Opinions. _Feelings_.

Not that Arthur didn’t _like_ that about Eames. Eames had _feelings_ , and he had no qualms with expressing his emotions. But, unlike Robert, Eames’ possession of feelings meant that they could be hurt.

It was Robert’s voice that echoed in his head. “ _I put up with all your bullshit.”_ It said. “ _You’ll ruin this, like you ruin everything else with your pedantic nagging and your suffocating clinginess. You were lucky to have me, I had the patience, Eames doesn’t.”_

These were the thoughts that echoed through Arthur’s mind, thoughts he’d been able to tune out up until now.

It perpetuated a mountain of guilt that built up inside Arthur’s gut for the following week. He could pretend that he hadn’t received the letter much longer.

A stronger, more logical part of his mind however, was in charge of his fingers.

The dial tone replaced that echo, overpowered it.

Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear and put it on speaker, so he could look the ten digits right in the face, face his neurosis head on. The dial tone droned on, unaware and uncaring of his current emotional rollercoaster.

“Hello?”

Arthur nearly choked on his own breath. “Uhm… This is Arthur?”

“Oh, god, I’ve been going crazy! I thought you were dead! Or a bi- product of my vivid imagination and a serious amount of sleeping pills.” Eames sighed down the line.

“I… I didn’t know you were British.” Arthur’s laugh came out in a huff. “Oh my god. Hi.”

“Hi.” Eames’ voice came through soft and light and smiling. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Arthur repeated.

“So. Uh, did you… get the key to my flat? Is it serving you well?”

“You were serious about that, huh?” He chuckled. 

“Of course! My place was far more in need of a face lift than yours, I’m sure.” 

“You’ll be happy to know I moved over here last week.”

“Is it comfortable? Are you settling in?”

“Physically, yeah. I guess it’s weird staying in a guy’s house when you’ve never actually met him beforehand.”

“Haven’t met?!” Eames balked. “Arthur, you’re the closest I’ve gotten to any single human being since… oof, probably university.”

“You went to university? What for?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“Theatre and dance.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m serious!”

Arthur spent the rest of the night sitting on the floor in front of the couch, not realising until the early morning sun began to stream between the living room curtains and brighten the room.

He took the first lull in the conversation to make his move. “So… When do I get to see you?”

Eames sighed heavily. “Oh, Arthur, I’m not entirely sure. How does… two weeks sound?”

“Two weeks? That’s so soon! You can’t be serious.”

“I’m entirely serious.”

“Are you deserting or something?”

Eames’ laugh was gruff yet soothing, like the smell of black coffee, if a laugh can sound like a smell. “No, no, of course not darling. My tour is finished, I get to come home.”

A lump began to form in the back of Arthur’s throat. “Oh, wow. Why didn’t you say anything?”

“And be so presumptuous as to think you’d meet me at the airport?”

“You may be so bold.”

“How’s that sound, then? Two weeks, you and me. Bit of a fresh take on a blind date, don’t you think?”

  
  


EPILOGUE?

Arthur fiddled his sign with his fingertips, chewing on his bottom lip in a way that he hoped was inconspicuous. (it was, but it gave him an even more severe RBF than he already had.)

It didn’t occur to him that he’d never actually bothered to study the picture of Eames in his home past a cursory glance, so when a tall, broad man with his head shaved approached him, he almost didn’t recognise him. 

It was the crooked smile that gave him away, a broad, scraggle-toothed grin that broke out as he read aloud the words on Arthur’s sign.

“Am I ‘The Right Robert’?” He asked, his accent sending a shiver of familiarity up Arthur’s spine. 

“I certainly hope you are.” Arthur smiled up at him. His golden skin smelled warm, like fresh bread on a hot summer day. “Hi.”

Eames hesitated a moment before kissing Arthur’s cheek, only a brief peck but still strong enough to send Arthur’s head spinning. “I was entirely serious about that date, Arthur.”

“As was I.”

“Pick a spot, anywhere, and I’ll take you. My treat.”

“How about your place?”

Eames blinked at him. “My place? What’s so great about my place?”

“Well, there’s a roast chicken in the oven there, for one.”

Arthur drove Eames back to the apartment he was slowly starting to think of as ‘theirs’, and one thing led to another. Dinner turned into a tour of the place, showcasing the newly tiled bathroom and the restored hardwood in the livingroom. (“I still can’t believe someone would tile over chesnut like that. I’d like to find a rug to tie the room together, but we can wear socks for now.”) The tour turned into wine in the kitchen while Arthur talked about his other overhaul ideas, and Eames told him stories from his last two years abroad. Drinks and stories ended when Eames trailed off, too caught up in Arthur’s eyes to remember what he was about to say.

That’s when Arthur kissed him, his gorgeous plump mouth just as soft as he’d been imagining it for the last few hours. 

Eames’ broad, strong hands lifted him onto the counter instinctually, then cupping his cheek, guiding him into a deeper heady kiss.

Arthur was the first to break the kiss, after a minute or an hour, he wasn't sure. "Wait, wait. We should wait." 

"Darling…" Eames whispered, leaning in again. "We've done our waiting." 

Arthur pecked his lips once more, then slid off the counter. "It's getting late. We should go to bed. But no funny business." 

Eames grinned, allowing himself to be dragged back towards the single bedroom. "Why not?" 

"We have a whole lifetime ahead of us, Eames." 


End file.
